


Dear Beauty

by gremlinny



Category: The Grinning Man - Philips & Teitler/Grose & Morris & Philips & Teitler/Grose
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Haircuts, Kissing, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinny/pseuds/gremlinny
Summary: Dea brings her hands into view, and Grinpayne takes a step backwards when he sees what she has; a pair of scissors are being offered to him.“Would you cut my hair, Grinpayne?”“Is that why you brought me out here,” Grinpayne asks, for lack of anything better to say, “to be your barber? I thought you liked having long hair.”___________(a week before they reach the capitol, Dea gets a haircut.)
Relationships: Dea/Grinpayne | Gwynplaine Trelaw
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Dear Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the London costumes where Dea’s hair looks WACK. 
> 
> An important thing to know about the way I write Grinpayne; he is mixed, he’s half black. Seeing as how his mom is a black woman, it just makes sense. It doesn’t have any effect on the story, just something to keep in mind while reading.
> 
> I’d say Grinpayne’s about 24 or 25, Dea’s 20. There’s nothing explicitly nsfw in this, but there’s a scene at the end where it’s implied. They’re just a bit touchy-feely.

Dea’s hair is long enough that she asks Ursus to braid it, one spring morning as they make their way to a sleepy little town on the coast. 

Ursus’ hands are suited just fine for potion-making and sewing and puppetry, but Dea’s silky hair keeps slipping from his thick fingers before he can twist the strands into a French plait. He mutters his displeasure and blames it on the bumpy road and rickety caravan, and as he walks away, Dea settles for simply tying it back with a thin length of ribbon, scrap left over from a puppet’s newly sewn wardrobe.

A rough patch on the road shakes the caravan and Grinpayne’s bed, and the young man wakes with a start.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Ursus says, taking bottles and elixirs out of boxes and down from shelves, “I thought you’d never wake up.”

A jolt of their cart sends a fresh wave of nausea through Grinpayne’s stomach, as well as a familiar pain through the weepy gash at his cheeks. “How long’ve I been out,” he groans, pushing himself into a sitting position, “what time’s it?”

“Nearly six. You clocked out ‘round seven last night, right after the show. Had your fill of crimson lethe, too.”

By the looks of it, Ursus has already set to the process of whipping up a new batch. 

Grinpayne blinks groggily, trying to retrace his steps. Last night had been taxing— physically and emotionally. A man can only take so many consecutive nights of acting out a past he can’t remember before it starts taking a toll. He hadn’t eaten anything at dinner, hadn’t said a word to anyone, just went straight to bed, medicine in hand, bleary-eyed and exhausted. 

Grinpayne swings his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the way his spine pops with the movement. His vision swims for a moment when he stands. Getting dressed for the day and changing his bandages, he finishes off what little remains in the bottle of crimson lethe. It’s just enough to make all the world’s hard edges soften ever so slightly, and it dulls the ache in his jaw to something more bearable. He’d never liked taking it first thing in the morning, never liked dealing with the haze of brain fog when there was work to be done, but he’ll have to power through it.

Ursus tells him the name of the town they’re headed toward, Something-Upon-Somewhere that Grinpayne himself has never heard of and can’t pronounce, though not for lack of trying. The two men stumble their way through a stilted conversation before tapering off into silence, and Ursus looks ready to say more, before they’re interrupted.

“Grinpayne,” Dea calls out, “could we go on a walk together, next time we stop?”

Grinpayne looks away from the man in front of him, pausing for a moment while looking at Dea. “I’d love to,” he replies, after a moment of silence. Dea’s long hair, pulled back with a few strands still loose, is catching the early morning light that streams in through the windows.

It’s wispy, almost white in the sunlight, a stark contrast to Grinpayne’s own thick, dark curls.

It’s stunning.

“Yes, Dea,” he repeats, “I really would love to.”

_________

The moment they stop, Dea’s racing out with Mojo at her heels, and Ursus barely has time to say “please be careful,” before she disappears.

Stepping out of the cart and stretching his legs, Grinpayne’s only just now realizing how close they are to the coast— his face stings with the gritty sand and salty ocean spray carried by the wind. The path they’re traveling is a winding dirt trail between a forest and jagged cliffs that overlook the shoreline, waves crashing against the rocky beach below. 

He ventures a few steps closer to the edge, peering into the water. 

It’s a very, very long way down.

“Stay where you are, Dea,” he calls out, and the girl’s footsteps from somewhere behind him stop in their tracks, “I’d hate for you to fall.”

“I won’t fall,” she protests, but when Grinpayne looks at her, he sees that she’s staying in place as asked. Making his way over, he realizes she’s got something held behind her back. 

“What’ve you got there?”

She smiles, rocking back on her heels. “It’s for you, actually.” 

Dea brings her hands into view, and Grinpayne takes a step backwards when he sees what she has; a pair of scissors are being offered to him. 

“Would you cut my hair, Grinpayne?”

“Is that why you brought me out here,” Grinpayne asks, for lack of anything better to say, “to be your barber? I thought you liked having long hair.”

“I do. But it’s getting to be a bit of a hassle, always in the way. Besides, Ursus can’t braid it, and neither can you.”

He almost wants to take offense to that, but it’s true. Every time he’d tried, he would get partway through braiding it before getting mixed up and practically tying the hair in knots.

“You could ask Ursus to cut it for you. Or hire a professional once we get into town.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to do this for her, but the thought of holding the scissors anywhere near Dea’s face is enough to set him on edge. He might not know what caused his own injury, but it’s no stretch of the imagination to think it was something sharp. Sharp, and much closer than it should’ve been.

“But I don’t want anyone else to do it. Grinpayne, I want it to be  _ you _ .”

Dea’s milky eyes are aimed somewhere near his neck, like she can see straight in and watch the way his heart crawls into his throat. 

“…You’re sure?”

“Always.” 

She brings a free hand up to feel for his shoulder, and Grinpayne steps into reach just in time for her slender fingers to curl into the fabric of his shirt.

Grinpayne wraps an arm around Dea instinctively; it’s second nature, by now, to hold her so closely, so gently. They fit together perfectly, like they were made to be in eachother’s embrace. Reluctantly, Grinpayne breaks away, and Dea’s hand migrates from his chest to the bend of his elbow, gripping firmly. He takes the scissors from her and tucks them into his pocket.

“I can’t say no to you,” he sighs, in mock defeat, and they make their way a bit further from the road and into the woods on the other side of the trail.

It’s chilly for a spring morning, with the sea breeze whispering through the trees, but the sunlight filtering in from above is enough to keep them from shivering.

“Did you really ask me out here just to cut your hair,” Grinpayne asks, once they’re far enough away from the caravan, after a few minutes of walking in silence, “or was there something else?”

Dea tilts her head so that her face catches a ray of light, closing her eyes as she trails her free hand along the little flowers sprouting from the forest floor. “You haven’t been feeling very well lately, and I think it’s staring to get on Ursus’ nerves.”

“It’s not like I can control how I feel all the time,” Grinpayne replies, feeling his hackles start to raise. There’s been a growing frustration in him with each puppet show performed, and him and Ursus had gotten into a few disagreements recently; shouting matches over inconsequential things, storming off in a huff after saying one thing to eachother. Clashes of interest. Dea squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“I know that. He’s not doing it on purpose, you know. We’re headed to the capitol in a few days after this stop, he’s probably anxious about that. There’s the potential of a big crowd to be drawn in there. It’s the small things that add up on top of that.”

Grinpayne sighs.

“So part of this is because you wanted to avoid a situation before it could start so early in the morning.”

“Partly,” she hums in agreement. “But mostly for you to help me out.”

“You’re the best of us, Dea,” he says, and she giggles.

Coming into a small clearing, they sit down on the grass, and Grinpayne takes off his overshirt, draping it over Dea’s shoulders so that hair doesn’t get on her blouse.

“How short would you like it?”

Dea offers a little shrug, settling her hands in her lap. “Whatever you think is best. I trust you.”

Grinpayne’s heart does a funny little thing in his chest. He doesn’t respond, instead pulling loose the ribbon in Dea’s hair. It cascades down to the middle of her back, and the strands in front reach down to her chin, concealing most of her face. If he could, he’d smile at the sight of it.

“Are you ready?”

Dea nods, her hair bobbing along with the movement, and Grinpayne walks around and kneels in front of her so that they’re face to face. He reaches up and snips away at her bangs until he can see her face properly. They’re choppy, looking out of place with the rest of her hair, but he’ll fix it soon enough. Returning to his position behind Dea, Grinpayne takes a deep breath and gets to work once again, trying to ignore the anxiety knotting in his stomach.

__________

“I think I messed up— No, don’t touch it, not yet!”

“It’s fine, Grinpayne!”

“No, no, I’ll set it right, just wait, don’t  _ touch it—“ _

________

“Did I nick your ear just now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, no, I think I did. I’m so sorry.”

________

“It’s itchy.”

“Of course it’s itchy, there’s pieces of hair stuck to your neck,  _ stop touching it, I’ll take care of it—“ _

_________

Stepping away and dropping the scissors, Grinpayne heaves out a sigh. “I’ve really screwed this up, Dea,” he admits, sinking to his knees with his head in his hands, making a point to  _ not _ look at the pile of hair collected on the ground.

Dea sits there with her hands in her lap, making a point to  _ not _ touch her hair. “Grinpayne, don’t worry, I’m sure it’s fine. But even if it’s not, it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

“Dea, it’s—“

He cuts himself off in frustration, making his way over to her, taking her hands in his and moving them to the back of her head so she can feel just how badly he messed up. “It’s much too short in the back, I got distracted and cut too much off,” he says, then continues guiding her hands along her hair as he talks, “then it gets longer near your ears, it’s down to your jaw, and I’ve done a dreadful thing to your bangs, they’re uneven and choppy and—“

“I love it.”

“What.”

“I love it. It’s different, it’s  _ new.  _ A wonderful change of pace, if you ask me.”

“But I—“

“Did a wonderful job. You did a wonderful job, Grinpayne. Thank you.”

As she stands, Dea presses a kiss to her friend’s forehead, his curly hair tickling her nose for the briefest moment.

Grinpayne follows suit, a bit numbly.

“So. You really do like it? You’re not just saying it to spare my feelings?”

Dea reaches for his hand again, intertwining their pinkies and squeezing gently.

“I really do like it. Pinky promise.”

Grinpayne looks down at their hands. Pinky promises, as childish as they may seem, are very serious things. Dea would never make one if she didn’t mean it. “Alright,” he breathes, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. 

Together, they make their way back to the cart, just as Ursus is walking out.

The older man stares long and hard at Dea, eyes wide. “You cut your hair,” he says, stiffly, gruffly, and Dea holds Grinpayne a bit closer. 

“Grinpayne helped me. Isn’t it lovely?”

Ursus stares, harder, at the lanky boy in her arms. If looks could kill, Grinpayne would be— Not dead, actually. Perfectly fine, maybe lightly bruised. When he speaks, though, there’s sincerity in his voice. “It looks wonderful, yes. Good job.”

As they head inside, Grinpayne feels pride swell in his chest.

____________

Later on—once they’ve reached the city, once they’ve finished the show, once Ursus is somewhere else in town and Dea has made the declaration that  _ the Grinning Man is not to be disturbed— _ Grinpayne lets his hands wander upwards in the darkness, feeling the silky softness of Dea’s short hair between his fingers, tracing her jaw with his thumb. 

Dea’s lips quirk up into a smile, and her hands on the small of his back are warm and gentle.

“I love you,” he says, an echo of what they’d sung to eachother earlier.

He means it more and more each time he says those three words. And Dea never doubts it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m castledock on tumblr


End file.
